Happy Anniversary X 4

On April 11, 2020, we took our first hike up a nearby logging road. In the midst of the early days of the pandemic, we needed exercise that didn’t require a gym or Peloton, and, we needed fresh air. That 1.7 mile trek, with a 1000’ of elevation gain, checked all of the boxes.

At first, it was simply a way to stay healthy and strong, and we made a commitment to do it whether we felt like it or not.

At first, it was just a logging road, used by county utility workers, ranchers on the look out for free range cattle, hunters, and us.

At first, it was just something we did because we’d decided to do it.

Today, April 11, 2024, four years to the day since that first trip up, and with over 350 trips behind us, the logging road has shown herself to be holy ground, quietly supporting us as we make our way up and back, up and back, up and back. The trees—fir, pine, oak—the wildlife—deer, elk, turkeys, jays, squirrels, hares, coyotes, raptors, bears—all remind us that we are never alone, but surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses.

Four years later, we wouldn’t miss it. That road has kept her promise to help us stay healthy and strong.

Four years later, hers is a sacred path we are privileged to walk.

Four years later, we do it because we can’t imagine not.

April 11, 2020

April 10, 2024

What To Do With It

It’s almost impossible to overestimate the impact of the past few years. We’ve muddled our way through a worldwide pandemic, lived in isolation from one another, and divided ourselves into political bunkers. While the pandemic may be behind us, we are still flailing around in its wake, and it’s hard to know what to do with all of the detritus. Where do we put the flotsam and jetsam that comes out as anger, frustration, fear, contempt for those we deem at fault, and judgment of those we disagree with or don’t understand?

It all has to go somewhere. And it does. We weave in and out of traffic at high speed, hang up on the customer service agent when we don’t get the answer we want, refuse to let another car merge into our lane, pound our fists on the desk, throw our cell phones across the room, scream at the chatbot, numb out on whatever we numb out on, and when all else fails, we take it out on whomever is close at hand, including ourselves.

There has to be a better way for us to manage all of this bottled up backwash.

This past Sunday a Zen Buddhist monk visited our church. He began by leading us in a Metta Loving Kindness practice We placed our right hand over our heart, covered it with our left, and then offered this blessing to ourselves. May I be well. May I be happy. May I know love. May I know peace. The practice doesn’t stop there, but is repeated several times towards others. Someone easy to love. Someone hard to love, Someone who has less than us. Someone who is our enemy.

We are, each of us, all of those people to someone. To some I am easy to love, to others not so much. I am a stranger to some, have less than others, and, yes, I am someone’s enemy.

We are all in need of this blessing. We all long to be well and to be happy, to know love and to know peace. Including the driver who won’t let us merge, the developer of the chatbot that doesn’t seem to be artificially intelligent enough to understand our predicament, the stranger on the other end of the phone who can’t—or won’t—give us what we want, the erratic driver on the freeway, those on the other side of the political aisle, and the person at the freeway exit with the sign who we are sure is taking advantage of the system.

What if, when that familiar urge to take it out on something, anything, someone, anyone rises up, we just don’t. What if instead, we quietly, silently, offer the blessing found in this practice, and then let it all go.

May you be well.

May you be happy.

May you know love.

May you know peace.

Can’t hurt. Might help.

The House I Hate

I hate my house.

Don’t get me wrong. I love our home and all the life that happens here. We couldn’t live in a more spectacular spot. Mt. Adams looms directly in front of us, offering a staggeringly breathtaking view that is just there for the looking. Our home is a place of hope and healing, a space to grieve and give thanks, and a dwelling where imperfect love, grace, and welcome reside in abundance. This rustic home is a shelter in the storm and a sanctuary in a world that seems to be crumbling before our eyes, threatening to taking us all down with it.

But I still hate my house.

We built it 14 years ago, and it is in need of freshening up. It’s true that most of the furnishings have a fun story behind them. There’s the fantastic $25 couch from the Goodwill Outlet (yes, that’s a thing), a dining room table and chairs from the consignment store next door to Sleepy Monk (our favorite coffee shop in the whole entire world), the matching Woolrich blinds that were still in their original boxes when I found them at another Goodwill, and the coffee table that used to display men’s ties from my days working for Nordstrom. There is a serious lack of floor and table lamps, as those seem to be what little grand boys love to bring crashing to the floor. Nothing goes with anything else, and if I hung sale tags on everything, you would think you’d wandered into a secondhand store with a first-class view. The house is a decorating hodgepodge that has gotten under my skin. And not in a good way.

Given the current economy, this isn’t necessarily the time to invest in a large-scale makeover. Two things are helping me navigate my current aesthetic crisis, and neither one costs me a dime.

The first is a comment from my sister several months ago. She suggested that every time I walk through the house, I should remember something good that happened here. Remember all of the gatherings and conversations and decisions and stories and apologies and connections and celebrations that have happened in this house that I hate that sits under the shadow of that glorious mountain. Recall the tears and hugs and laughter and prayers and meals and toasts and naps that have taken place in front of that beautiful rock fireplace.

So much good has happened here, and it’s had nothing to do with finding the right fabric or purchasing the perfect rug. It’s happened because of the intention with which we built this home, the vision we had for it to be a safe place for all who walk through the door, and our ongoing work to learn how to better love, help, and heal the world that is within our reach. Starting right here. In this house that I hate.

The second source of help came today in the midst of what is always a fruitful monthly conversation with my spiritual director. As he quietly listened to me express my need to get back to writing but not finding my way to my desk to actually write, and my failed commitment to spend regular time in contemplative prayer and meditation, it hit me. I recently took an inventory of the spaces that I actually love in this house that I hate. There are two to be exact. One is my tiny office on the stair landing, the other my meditation space tucked under the eves upstairs. I love everything about these two spaces: their location, the furnishings, the colors, and the way they are arranged. The two places I love the most are also the ones where I need to show up the most.

So many things can get in the way of doing what we most need to do to so that we can be who we most want to be. The fear that stops us in our tracks. The lie that things are so bad that what we each do doesn’t matter. The pain, blame, shame, finger pointing, screaming matches that find their way into our news feeds, email inboxes, and social accounts. The too-muchness of it all can cause us to do too little, and then everyone loses.

Writing is the way I make sense of the world and my place in it. Quiet time in the presence of the Holy grounds me in a world that is spinning out of control. If there are two things that I need to do, these are them. And I haven’t been doing them. And it shows.

My desk and meditation space that I love are waiting for me, right here, in this house that I hate. All I have to do is show up, and the rest will take care of itself.

From The Logging Road: Lessons #5

We had a wicked wind storm a week ago, bringing with it all of the usual things. Detours due to downed trees, power outages, and flags, furniture, and fallen branches strewn hither and yon.

This morning was our first foray up the logging road since the storm, and rounding an early bend in the road, a downed pine tree blocked our way.

We had four options. Turn back, climb over, crawl under, or go around. All were viable possibilities.

Turning back didn’t even enter our minds. Arriving at the top, and the hike to get there have become a sacred practice. An intentional habit that anchors our week, fortifies our bodies, and fills our souls. Climbing over was doable, but not necessary, as was crawling under. So around we went. After a short scramble we were quickly on our way again , footsteps falling together on the trail.

Obstacles are inevitable.

The trick is to know what to do with them when they fall across our path.

Becoming Better

My good friend and colleague, David Berry is the V.P. of People & Culture at Municipal. David hosts the podcast, Becoming Better Men, which is about exactly what the name suggests.

Recently my husband and I listened in on David’s conversation with another good friend and colleague of mine, educator and spiritual director, Dane Anthony. Their conversation, There’s Another Way to Be Myself, was rich, insightful, and one of my favorites to date.

At the end of every conversation David asks his guest the same five questions. One in particular grabbed my attention.

What is a quality you wish you had less of?

We decided to answer that same question for ourselves.

My answer was clear and immediate.

Zero doubt about it, the quality I would like less of is defensiveness. For the record, other people in my life probably wish I had less of it too.

It’s been with me for as long as I can remember. Perhaps it grew out of being raised by a patriarchal father who wasn’t a fan of strong women, which is tough when that is what you are. It might have been a necessary coping mechanism back in the day, but not any more. It is a protective reaction, based on fear, and it isn’t pretty. Especially when you are married to a guy who absolutely is a fan of strong women, and which is in fact, one of the reasons he wanted to share life with you.

Like any longtime habit, my defensive pattern runs deep, and it doesn’t take much to set it off. However, I am discovering that there is a sliver of time in which to make a different choice. A tiny wafer of moments that creates enough room to take a breath, which creates enough space to take another one, and then another one. Those breaths allow me enough time to step away from that old reactive quality, and begin to step into a new one. One that is based on curiosity, not fear, and favors connection over protection. Sometimes my better angels don’t win, and I blast right past that tiny sliver of time. But now I know it is there, and as Dane Anthony reminds me in our monthly conversations, we can’t ever un-know what we’ve learned along our way.

I hope you will listen in on David’s conversation with Dane on Becoming Better Men. And when it’s over, maybe you will want to answer that same question for yourself.

What is a quality you wish you had less of?

If you are like me, your answer will come fairly quickly, and lead to plenty of opportunities to practice a new way of being yourself. And while practice may never make perfect, it will always make better.

(Be sure to check out Municipal for some great sports utility gear.)

Hope As A Practice

Every day we get to choose whether to give

the microphone to hope or fear.

The choice we make is the life we’ll lead.

Bob Goff

Someone recently shared this quote with me, and I couldn’t agree more. The words ring true in my head and my heart and in my experience.

However.

Especially now, there are days when I am in need of the tiniest of victories, and choosing to listen to the voice of hope in the morning is no guarantee that it will stay with me for the day. Fear can ambush me at any moment, and when it does, I have to choose to pry the microphone out of fear’s ferocious grip, and place it firmly back in the hands of hope. And then do it again. Hope is a practice.

Hope isn’t seeing the silver lining in a pit of despair. It is mining for the gold that is found buried deep in the heart of struggle.

Hope isn’t looking at the bright side of dark realities. It is choosing to be a light in dark times.

Hope isn’t passive. As I was reminded by someone recently, it requires something of us. It calls on us not to just choose it, but to work for it. Not to just wait for it, but to watch for it. To pursue it by pushing toward something better.

Like I said. Hope is a practice.

Photo by egil sjøholt from Pexels

A Reprieve

re·​prieve : a temporary respite (as from pain or trouble)

From our car to the top of the logging road is 1.7 miles, gaining 1000’ of elevation. It is a hike straight uphill to the top with the exception of one very short reprieve, thanks to the one and only switchback near the summit.

The switchback is so short it would be easy to miss it. Easy to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, head down, eyes on the trail, focused only on the effort it takes to make the hike. But every time we get there, and the road levels out for no more than a couple of hundred feet, we take notice. Take notice of the easing of our breath, the strength in our legs, the ground beneath our feet, and the beauty of the views that stretch out before us.

After less than 30 seconds the trail heads uphill again, but that one switchback provides just enough of a reprieve to make that last push to the top seem doable.

Given the immense challenges stretched out before us at this time in history, and the daily grind of our days, it would be easy to miss the tiny reprieves that show up on our trail. Easy to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, heads down, eyes on the trail be it to the end of the day or the end of the pandemic, focused only on the effort it takes to keep going.

If ever we were in need of the tiniest of reprieves it is now.

Noticing that reprieve on the logging road has become a practice, and a reminder to be on the lookout for any temporary respites, no matter how brief, that appear on our path. Taking heed of them might just be what makes our next steps seem doable.

What Do We Allow?

“Whatever you allow gets reinforced.”

Matt Luchisnger

This morning in a private training session with Matt, owner North West Balanced Dog Training, as we were talking about Gracie-the-chocolate-labradoodle, he reminded us that whatever we allow her to do reinforces that particular behavior. If we ask her to lie down, and she begins to inch her way (still on her belly of course, since she’s a clever little girl) closer and closer to a toy or morsel of food, and we allow it, we’ve just reinforced that she is welcome to do so. Which she isn’t. Not if we want her to take us seriously. Which we do.

Prior to Gracie it just never occurred to me that what works when training a dog works pretty well when training a human too. Allow fearful thoughts to creep further in, and they will. Allow others to treat us with disrespect, and they will. Allow ourselves to look for the negative, and we will. Allow old stories to rule our life, and they will.

Whatever we allow gets reinforced.

Believing Our Ears

When I was in college, a good way to clear my head and get reenergized for a long night of studying was to go for a nice long afternoon run. A favorite route was the trail that snaked its way around the edges of the par-3 golf course on campus.

There was one particular run, that I almost didn’t take, but am so glad that I did.

Living off campus in an apartment, I threw on my running clothes, hopped into my white 65 Mustang, and headed for the golf course. On the way there it started to rain, and by the time I parked the car, it was raining even harder.

Or so it sounded on the metal roof of my car.

The rain hitting that metal roof sounded like a torrential downpour. While not a fair-weather runner by any means, which one can’t be if one lives in the Pacific Northwest, the longer I sat there, the more reasons I came up with not to get out of the car. It would be too cold, too wet, too muddy on the course, and too much bother to deal with my wet running clothes back in our apartment with no washer and dryer. Not only that, it was raining even harder.

Or so it sounded on the metal roof of my car.

Just about to put the key in the ignition and head back home, I suddenly thought of all the reasons to get out of the car. After every run, I always felt better, and logging those three-miles left me with energy, clarity, and a more positive outlook. While I didn’t give in and start the car, I didn’t get out of it either, and, it was raining even harder.

Or so it sounded on the metal roof of my car.

I sat there for a few more minutes, pondering my dilemma. To run, or not to run? Before I could change my mind, I grabbed the door handle, stepped out of the car, and immediately found that the rain that sounded like a downpour was actually just a gentle spring rain. Cool and invigorating, the conditions were perfect for a run.

45 years later, I still remember the feel of the rain on my face, the good endorphins that come when we move our bodies, and, how glad I was that I didn’t let the sound of the rain, on the metal roof of my car, keep me from hitting the trail.

Sometimes it’s good not to believe our ears.

image: mustang dreams.com

Does It Have To Hit The Fan?

Little did we know when we brought Gracie-the chocolate-labradoodle into our home, that we were getting a four-legged, curly haired spiritual master. Kind of like our own personal Yoda. But cuter.

We learn from her all the time, and simply caring for her daily needs brings profound lessons. None more so than cleaning up her daily piles out in the yard. Because we are diligent to do so, we are not left with landmines to be avoided, or more likely, stepped in. Once stepped in, there is a whole lot more work to be done in order to clean things back up so as not to bring the un-dealt with shit into our home.

I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a darn good metaphor for life.

In real life, sometimes we procrastinate, neglect to clean up our messes, and just wait until it all hits the fan, at which point life gets a whole lot harder, not to mention messier. The nasty smelling stuff gets thrown all over anyone within striking distance, and there is a lot of clean up to do. But like little Gracie is teaching us, it happens, and when it does, it is so much easier to pick it up and deal with it, rather than leave it to accumulate.

When it comes to Gracie, we have a practice in place, and because we have committed to the practice, it has become a habit.

See the stuff.

Deal with the stuff.

Be done with the stuff.

I don’t know about you, but that sounds like another darn good metaphor for life.

See our stuff.

Deal with our stuff.

Be done with our stuff.

This, of course, isn’t a one and done deal. We will be cleaning up after ourselves for as long as we draw breath. But the stronger our commitment to the practice, the more deeply engrained the habit.

We can wait for the shit to hit the fan.

But it’s a whole lot easier to deal with if we don’t.